these things—worse, in a way, than uprooting oneself. A box of oddments, left for the daily woman, seemed particularly pathetic to Diana. There was the blue and white mixing bowl which Mrs Jones had always admired, and over there, waiting to be packed, was the blue and white flour dredger which had always stood beside it. It seemed wrong that they should be parted after so many years. Somehow, Diana was reminded of a family dispersed, a bond broken, each wrenched from a common home, and scattered afar.
By mid-morning the upstairs floor was stripped, and Diana's roving feet echoed dismally on the bare boards. In the spare bedroom, a disgusted cat lashed his tail and did his best to escape as the door opened. He was as upset as Diana by this outrageous shattering of routine. No after-breakfast stroll in the garden, no visiting of Charlie, the next-door Siamese, to polish off his breakfast, no mid-morning snack—it was enough to put a cat in a rage, and Tom indulged his fury to the utmost. He repelled Diana's sympathetic advances, wriggling from her arms, and gazing at her malevolently from the window sill. He had noticed the hated cat basket earlier in the day, and knew that something unpleasant was afoot. Another trip to see the vet? Another stay at the kennels? Whatever was planned was not going to be approved by Tom, and he showed his displeasure plainly.
Diana left him to his sulking, and went from bedroom to bedroom to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. The rooms, without the curtains, were amazingly light, and the walls seemed remarkably dirty. There were grubby lines where the chests of drawers and chair had stood. There was even a patch on the wall above Peter's bed, where his head must have rested when he read at night. Diana had never noticed it before, and thought the rooms looked startlingly seedy without their furnishings.
The oddest things seemed to have come to light. Whose was this grey hairpin by the skirting board? She had never used a hair-pin in her life, and certainly not a grey one. In the boys' old room, a china bead and the bayonet broken from a lead soldier glinted in the crack of the floorboards. A papery butterfly clung to their window, and in a dark corner were a few minute shreds of paper which looked suspiciously like the work of a mouse.
It was a good thing that Mrs Jones was going to scrub the place from top to bottom, thought Diana, or the new owners would think that they had lived in absolute squalor. No one, looking at the bare rooms now, would believe that they were thoroughly spring-cleaned each March, and zealously turned out once a week.
By mid-day the vans were packed, and they rumbled away down the drive. Automatically, Diana looked at the empty mantel shelf to see the time, and even wandered into the kitchen to consult the non-existent wall clock there. Her neighbour had invited her to lunch, and she made her way next door, glad to leave the uncanny silence of her own home.
'How's it going?' asked her hostess.
'Very well, I think. But I feel as though I've been put through a wringer.'
'What you need is a meal,' said her neighbour practically, leading the way.
Over at Tyler's Row the day grew more hectic as it advanced. Peter knew exactly how he wanted the unloading done, and had given explicit directions about labelling the tea-chests so that they could be taken to the right room without any delay.
'Carpets down first,' he had told Diana. 'Then cover them where the men will be treading, and simply put each piece of furniture in place as it's unpacked. It shouldn't take much more than an hour.'
Of course, it did not work out like that. The men had packed the vans with pieces which fitted well together, irrespective of the rooms for which they were intended. A little desultory labelling had been done in the early stages, but most of the tea-chests bore no labels at all. Poor methodical Peter felt his blood-pressure rising as the boxes came into the tiny hall, one
By mid-morning the upstairs floor was stripped, and Diana's roving feet echoed dismally on the bare boards. In the spare bedroom, a disgusted cat lashed his tail and did his best to escape as the door opened. He was as upset as Diana by this outrageous shattering of routine. No after-breakfast stroll in the garden, no visiting of Charlie, the next-door Siamese, to polish off his breakfast, no mid-morning snack—it was enough to put a cat in a rage, and Tom indulged his fury to the utmost. He repelled Diana's sympathetic advances, wriggling from her arms, and gazing at her malevolently from the window sill. He had noticed the hated cat basket earlier in the day, and knew that something unpleasant was afoot. Another trip to see the vet? Another stay at the kennels? Whatever was planned was not going to be approved by Tom, and he showed his displeasure plainly.
Diana left him to his sulking, and went from bedroom to bedroom to make sure that nothing had been overlooked. The rooms, without the curtains, were amazingly light, and the walls seemed remarkably dirty. There were grubby lines where the chests of drawers and chair had stood. There was even a patch on the wall above Peter's bed, where his head must have rested when he read at night. Diana had never noticed it before, and thought the rooms looked startlingly seedy without their furnishings.
The oddest things seemed to have come to light. Whose was this grey hairpin by the skirting board? She had never used a hair-pin in her life, and certainly not a grey one. In the boys' old room, a china bead and the bayonet broken from a lead soldier glinted in the crack of the floorboards. A papery butterfly clung to their window, and in a dark corner were a few minute shreds of paper which looked suspiciously like the work of a mouse.
It was a good thing that Mrs Jones was going to scrub the place from top to bottom, thought Diana, or the new owners would think that they had lived in absolute squalor. No one, looking at the bare rooms now, would believe that they were thoroughly spring-cleaned each March, and zealously turned out once a week.
By mid-day the vans were packed, and they rumbled away down the drive. Automatically, Diana looked at the empty mantel shelf to see the time, and even wandered into the kitchen to consult the non-existent wall clock there. Her neighbour had invited her to lunch, and she made her way next door, glad to leave the uncanny silence of her own home.
'How's it going?' asked her hostess.
'Very well, I think. But I feel as though I've been put through a wringer.'
'What you need is a meal,' said her neighbour practically, leading the way.
Over at Tyler's Row the day grew more hectic as it advanced. Peter knew exactly how he wanted the unloading done, and had given explicit directions about labelling the tea-chests so that they could be taken to the right room without any delay.
'Carpets down first,' he had told Diana. 'Then cover them where the men will be treading, and simply put each piece of furniture in place as it's unpacked. It shouldn't take much more than an hour.'
Of course, it did not work out like that. The men had packed the vans with pieces which fitted well together, irrespective of the rooms for which they were intended. A little desultory labelling had been done in the early stages, but most of the tea-chests bore no labels at all. Poor methodical Peter felt his blood-pressure rising as the boxes came into the tiny hall, one
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